


Mouse Job

by Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Declan Murphy is The Bishop, Declan Murphy is the Bad Guy, Episode Related, Episode: s16e15 Undercover Mother, Graphic Rape, Murder, Rape/Non-con Elements, Takes Place in Season 16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 14:42:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15391002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark
Summary: Carisi knows nobody likes him. He knows he’s the weak link, the inexperienced one, the bad bedside manner, the butt of the joke.…But that doesn’t give foiled sex-trafficker Bishop the right to take him, to hurt him.--Heed the tags.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in Season 16 (and was (mostly) written during the airing of Season 17), and I have not watched the following seasons, so things are probably obviously wrong.
> 
> For disclaimer, see my profile.
> 
> This whole story is graphic violence, physical and sexual.

~ * ~

Carisi knows nobody likes him. He knows he’s the weak link, the inexperienced one, the bad bedside manner, the butt of the joke.

He always says what comes to his mind, no filter. Sometimes he wishes he really could stop talking about Fordham—yeah, c’mon, man, he’s proud of it—and about his likes and dislikes—well, no one else volunteers information about themselves—but sometimes he wishes he could actually say what he’s really thinking instead of what comes out of his mouth.

When they leave him in the cell with that gel pack pressed to his face, he really thinks they’ll leave him there.

Amaro’s parting shot of “Shut up” stings a bit, but Carisi supposes it’s deserved. There’s so many other times when he won’t shut up, that it’s a little fair, still painful, that he gets that as a general reaction.

Although, when Bishop comes back, death glares all around, but especially hard at him, he curls into the corner, making sure he stays in the line of sight of the guard.

He also decides to keep his mouth firmly shut.

It’s the longest he’s gone without spitting out a random barrage of words that only make his audience want to hit him. Apparently, after less than thirty seconds, Bishop had succumbed to that urge quite readily, and the darkening glances being sent in Carisi’s direction means he would do it again, and it might not take Carisi opening his mouth this time.

It takes three hours to spring Carisi from the holding cell. Bishop’s moved on in one, whispering in Carisi’s ear how he’s going to break out of Rikers and beat him.

By then, Carisi really needs to take a leak and his throat is dry even though he hasn’t said a word.

He avoids Amaro as best he can. Every time he catches his eye, he remembers the threat from Bishop’s and how Amaro left him in there.

No one notices that he doesn’t speak the rest of the day—he spends almost another three hours filing paperwork and trying to ignore the self-satisfied looks the other detectives shoot him every now and again. He also tries to ignore the persistent throbbing from the bruises on his face.

The next day, he throws back his shoulders and lets it roll off his back. He chatters nonstop to Amaro over coffee, and he yaps Fin’s ear off when they happen to meet in front of Benson’s office. Rollins runs away from him the moment she sees him coming.

Funnily enough, none of them notice he’s just talking about weather or a TV show he managed to see two minutes of when he channel surfed all night long trying to avoid falling asleep. He surprisingly doesn’t mention that fact either, or the one about his loaded gun sitting on the seat beside him all night. Or about the way Bishop’s words keep running through his mind every minute he’s awake.

One step at a time, and maybe a week later, he’s back to normal.

All in all, it’s a pretty simple day aside from them busting Johnny D’s prostitution ring wide open.

Then Fin tells him Bishop got out of that weapon’s charge, and Carisi stops talking again. He hides his non-words with smiles and quiet laughs that keep everyone avoiding him with the promise that he _might_ talk. He knows there’s something really messed up with Bishop that’s upsetting the others, especially Rollins. He can hear it in their voices.

He doesn’t sleep that night again, hiding under his blanket like a six-year-old afraid of the monster in his closet. Except, Carisi knows there are monsters and they’re not always in the closet.

The next morning, Benson tsks at the huge bags under his eyes, and he offers her a tired smile.

The days march onwards, with a few nightmare riddled nights, a few sleepless nights, and a few more hours at the gun range.

Exactly one month from the undercover op at the madam’s house, Carisi comes face to face with Bishop in a corner bodega.

Carisi has milk and cereal and a stuffed animal for Benson who says Noah is sick again. Poor kid.

Bishop has his hand on a young woman’s shoulder, and it’s obvious to anyone who looks that the lady is scared and crying.

Carisi does the only thing he can think of: he throws the milk and cereal (and the toy) at him and tackles him away from the lady. Bishop cracks him over the head with something—Carisi doesn’t get a good look before he hits the floor, black and white sparks exploding in his vision. The last thing he hears before he passes out is Bishop leaning close to whisper, “You’re dead,” in his ear.

He wakes up blindfolded, dry-mouthed, and terribly in pain.

He is sitting upright, arms over his head attached to the brick wall behind him. His legs are bent, tucked under each other, criss-cross-style.

Everything aches—his head, his arms, his legs, even his _eyes_. He can still feel his hands though, but his feet are asleep. His clothing, a t-shirt and jeans, is still intact, but he’s missing his socks and shoes, he thinks, and he definitely has no jacket.

Somewhere off to his right, a female voice whispers something over and over.

He curses himself for not being able to save the lady from the bodega.

“You want a snow bunny?” Bishop’s Irish brogue hisses suddenly, and Carisi jumps. “Well, now you’re a snow bunny. A bit old, but a virgin, am I right?”

“No,” Carisi says, commending the fact that his voice doesn’t waver. “I had an adventurous girlfriend in college.” He doesn’t say she drugged him one night and he woke up to her pegging him, but Bishop doesn’t need to know.

“Ah,” Bishop says, like it’s so easy to understand, and then a flare of heat sears Carisi’s side and he screams as the pain registers.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” he moans, twisting and turning, trying to escape the source, and the source follows him, pressing in harder and burning—oh, God, he’s being burned!—the material of his shirt and flesh underneath it. “Goddamn it! Stop!”

Bishop laughs, a cold, cold sound that freezes Carisi’s heart, before the source of the burning is pulled away. The pain remains, though, and Carisi breathes through it.

Bishop runs a hand through Carisi’s hair, and Carisi realizes that he’s been out long enough for someone to wash the gel out of his hair. Bishop grabs a ready handful and tugs painfully. “You’re my snow bunny. You’ll earn your keep. Or, you can feel the prod again.”

The blindfold is ripped off, and Carisi blinks into the bright light, surprised when it settles down to nothing more than a single bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Bishop is already gone by the time Carisi can see clearly.

The room is small, the floor dirt. Against the wall, opposite from him, is a small table with shackles hanging off the side. Beside him is an ill-fitting door painted white. There are no windows lining the tops of the walls, but Carisi would guess they’re in a basement versus an abandoned warehouse or a hospital, like where Johnny D was.

He glances down at his side, a little unsettled that there’s not even a small hole where the “prod” had been. Off to his right, the woman continues her little repetition, but now Carisi hears it’s a prayer.

The woman is unrestrained.

“Hey,” Carisi tries, voice low, in case Bishop has the place bugged or is still nearby and will come back if he hears them conspiring.

“Hey,” the lady says back, a little louder than Carisi would like. “What do you need?”

“I need to get free,” he whispers, a hopeful look on his face. She frowns at him. “Any chance you can help with that?”

“Depends on the free you mean,” she says. “If it’s with business, I’d think that prod woulda taken it outta you.”

“Nah,” he says. “I just need anything to get the cuffs off.” He tries not to think about what she’d implied. She must have been a recapture job to be so quickly indoctrinated, unless he’s been out for longer than he thinks he was.

She smiles, a pretty sight marred by the rotted roots of her teeth. Meth Head.

“I could maybe blow you,” she offers instead, all pretense gone out the fucking window.

“Nah,” he says again. “I just need to get out of the cuffs. Everything else is not negotiable. I won’t do anything to you, you don’t do anything to me.”

“What if Bishop wants me to do something to you?”

“Hopefully, you and I will both be somewhere far away from Bishop before that happens.”

“Hopefully you’ll learn what it means to be owned by someone,” Bishop says, and Carisi snaps his head up. For a big man, Bishop moves silently. In his hand is what must be the “prod,” a twenty-four inch long rod, tipped with rubber and two metal nodes. It’s an honest-to-God cattle prod.

Bishop’s grin is matter-of-fact, if one can even have such a grin. He’s got that damn ivy cap jammed on his head, too, and it loans a sinister air to his sudden reappearance.

“You need to let us go, right now.”

“You don’t threaten me, mouse.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t threaten me.”

On flicks the cattle prod. Carisi squirms away as best he can, but the tip of it still jabs into his ribcage, and he screams at the shock of pain.

“I own you, mouse,” Bishop says, pressing harder.

“I…thought I…was…snow bunny?” Carisi manages to gasp out.

“Fuck you.” Bishop stops, though. He steps back, the prod still on, but at least it’s away from Carisi right now. “You know what, I’ve got a client upstairs. He doesn’t mind a little blood, a little roughhousing. I think you’ll like him a lot.”

That grin is back, and Carisi feels his stomach drop. “I-I don’t,” he says, lips going numb, fingers tingling, “I can’t. D-don’t. Don’t do this.”

Bishop leans forward, switching the prod off a moment before he uses it to lift Carisi’s face so he can examine the tears starting to well—Carisi tells himself that it’s because of the pain, and not anything else. “Be a man,” he says, letting Carisi’s head fall. He stalks away, stopping at the table to lay the prod down.

Carisi swallows hard, forcing himself to stop tearing up, not to follow Bishop’s direction, but to be able to see clearly. He braces, and when Bishop returns to unlock the first cuff, he rises on his unfeeling legs and deadened feet to butt his head against the man’s nose. Blood splashes on his face, and he ducks his head quickly, so he misses the fist that slams into his jaw. He slumps quickly, body relaxing as he drops into unconsciousness.

~ * ~


	2. Chapter 2

~ * ~

When he wakes up, there is a buzzing sound. At first, Carisi thinks he’s been blindfolded again because he can’t see. Then, something warm and sticky drips onto his face, and his eyes pop open.

 _Oh_ , he thinks. He _can_ see. It’s not pretty—a larger room than before, better lit too. Stark corners and metal instruments on small tables—white walls, bright light. A large winding staircase, all chrome and marble, stands in the center of the room. The buzzing is coming from a large red vibrator set near his knee.

He’s strapped to a metal table, arms and legs pulled so he’s almost spread-eagled and can’t protect himself. A thick leather belt crosses his chest. His t-shirt is still there, but his jeans have been removed so he’s only got his boxer shorts on.

Hanging directly above his head is a pot overflowing with something. Another drop splashes on his face and he realizes it’s warmed lubricant. He looks at the vibrator again, wincing as he takes in its rather sturdy dimensions.

“Ready?” someone says, and he turns his head to watch a man come sweeping down the staircase, a billowing red cape flapping behind him. He’s shirtless, his hairless chest stuck out, flattened stomach narrowing into thin hips and fitted jeans. His feet are bare, too. His long, dark hair and trimmed goatee only add an undercurrent of indecency to his costume.

“Very villainous,” Carisi notes, sarcastically, and the man flashes a toothy grin at him, letting the cape fall from his shoulders to pool like blood on the pristine floor.

“I aim to please,” he says. His words are very precisely pronounced, and the effect makes Carisi’s head hurt. Although that could just be a side effect of Bishop’s fist. “My name is Jonathan,” he continues, more precise words. “I will be your trainer. I understand you are to be a ‘snow-bunny.’”

“Well, if it’s up to me, I’d rather go home right now.” More lube drops onto his face, and Carisi sputters for a bit. He doesn’t see Bishop anywhere. Jonathan has an intrigued look on his face.

“Tell me, mouse, who said you had a choice?” The quick change from almost genial to ice throws Carisi, but he supposes he should have been expecting it. After all, he is still in the clutches of a dangerous pimp.

“You asked if I wanted to be a snow-bunny,” Carisi points out.

“No, I did not. I said I understand you _are_ to be a ‘snow-bunny,’ not if you _wanted_ to be one.”

“Sorry,” Carisi says, wishing he could take the word back as soon as it leaves his lips. He’s too used to apologizing now for antagonizing people just by opening his mouth. It might be best if he just shuts up.

“Seven,” Jonathan says and walks out of sight, leaving Carisi to wonder exactly what seven means.

Carisi struggles with the straps for a bit. He can feel that his hands aren’t tied down the same way as the rest of him, and if he could just get them to turn over, he might be able to undo the buckles over his wrists. He doesn’t manage to do anything before Jonathan returns, a cat-o-nine-tails in one hand and a small prod in the other. He uses the prod to move the pot of lube, working it until one of the ropes it hangs from is stuck over a hook in the ceiling, pinning it away from Carisi’s head.

“Seven,” he repeats before striking Carisi in the chest with both implements at the same time. Thankfully, Carisi’s shirt absorbs most of the whip’s blow, but the electricity—while not as strong as the cattle prod—arcs through him and he whimpers with the pain of it.

Six more times, Jonathan hits him, counting each strike loudly and clearly.

Once he’s done, he disappears from sight again.

“Snow bunny,” Bishop says, and Carisi locates him standing on the steps. His nose looks broken. Good. “I hope you aren’t giving my client too much trouble.”

“Oh, you know me,” Carisi says, the words breaking from him before he can fully think them through, “trouble’s my middle name.”

“Yes, mouse, trouble is your name.”

Jonathan is back with scissors this time. Carisi holds still while his clothes are cut away. He tells himself it’s because of the sharp blade. Everything is taken and he tries not to feel overly self-conscious at his naked flesh.

Bishop stands back, his ivy cap hiding his eyes, making him appear even more malevolent than he already does.

The vibrator ceases buzzing, and Jonathan returns to pick it up. “Hmm, lasted longer than I thought it would. Perhaps an omen?” He laughs and Bishop favors him with a tight smile.

An omen? For him? Carisi swallows hard. He still doesn’t like the look of the vibrator, which really is nothing more than a dildo now that it’s not, y’know, vibrating.

“Virgin?” Jonathan asks of Bishop, stretching on tiptoes to dip the vibrator in the lube pot.

Bishop waves a hand dismissively, joining Jonathan at the table, “He fed me some bullshit story about an ex-girlfriend.”

“So, a virgin.” Jonathan smiles. He lifts the vibrator, perhaps admiring the way the lube shines in the light. He lays it next to Carisi’s knee again and then he and Bishop shift his legs until they can be pinned to his chest by the strap over it and Carisi is bent almost double.

Carisi remembers all the seminars, the advice given for male rape victims, and he tries to brace himself, to loosen his rectum before the intrusion, but Jonathan seems to know what he’s trying to do. He reaches down, cold fingers, and twists Carisi’s balls hard. The pain makes Carisi contract just as the vibrator is shoved into him.

It hurts and it feels like something inside tears as Jonathan thrusts the vibrator deep.

Carisi cries out, closing his eyes and breathing harshly. The tears are back, leaking from the corners of his eyes and running into his hair.

“Take it like a man,” Bishop’s words, his voice, a mantra, sets into his brain. He floats up near the ceiling, watching as his body stops reacting to Jonathan’s administrations. He also notes that it stops crying.

He loses track of time as he watches his attack unfold.

Jonathan certainly does like blood. He keeps sticking his fingers into Carisi’s bloody channel, smearing whatever he finds over Carisi’s face, forcing his fingers down Carisi’s throat.

When it’s finally over, and it’s safe to come back, the little meth head is staring at him as she sits in a corner, a needle stuck in the crook of her arm. She offers the whole appendage to him listlessly.

“We’re gonna die,” she informs him, tone flat and dead already.

He tries to respond, finds his throat stuck shut. Can taste the blood and something fouler and wants to vomit but can’t open his mouth.

“Come on, babe,” she says, dragging herself over to him. “If you don’t come back, they’re gonna kill us both.”

He manages to choke out, “Thought you said we were gonna die anyway.”

She smiles. Then, with hands already shaking from the drop of the high, she frees him, tugging the straps so they loosen and fall off like shedding skin.

Carisi stays still, blinking up at the lights, willing his limbs to work as he prepares himself for the pain he feels crawling up his spine, burning deep in his body.

Meth Head takes his hand, stroking the back of it, whispering her little prayer again.

“Do you know the way out?” he asks. Before she can answer him, he rolls over, no warning, bile spewing from his lips as he throws up violently.

Surprisingly, the episode gives him the energy he needs to slide his feet onto the floor and leverage himself upright. Meth Head ducks under his arm, letting him lean on her even though she’s almost weaker than he is, and leads him to a wall. The door is nearly seamless and if the light was any less bright, Carisi’s sure he would have missed it.

It swings away from them at the slightest touch, revealing a long, dimly lit hallway stretching farther back, and Carisi wonders how big this house is.

Meth Head leaves him then, dancing down the hallway, an ethereal figure with her wispy hair and baggy clothes. Slower, Carisi follows her, fingers trailing over the rough walls, bare feet scraping over unsmoothed dirt.

She stops beside another door. This one is the ill-fitting door to the place he’d first woken in. He glares at her, but she’s oblivious to his anger. Instead, she throws open the door, and Carisi winces at the loud bang it makes as it hits the wall.

He stares at the spot where he’d been chained before. It looks…empty. The cattle prod is missing from the table, he notes too.

He examines it, finding that the restraints are removable. He pulls one off; it’s a simple length of chain with a cuff on the end. He swings it experimentally, pleased at the weight, the heft of it.

Meth Head reaches for it, too, and Carisi slaps her hand away. “You led me to a dead end,” he says, and she shrugs.

“Still wanna do it?”

“Shut up.” Tired and achy, Carisi manages to drag the table to the door, blocking the doorway as best he can. Meth Head finds a stash of needles in her corner, and she leaves him alone while she attempts to shoot up. He sinks to the floor, sitting in the table’s old spot, wrapping his arms around his knees, and closing his eyes.

He drifts, floating away on his exhaustion. He can still hear Meth Head babbling to herself, waxing poetical about her high.

He’s not sure what wakes him, maybe an hour later. It takes a few seconds to pin the source of the sound to the table being pushed back enough so Bishop can enter the room.

Carisi jumps to his feet. He still has the chain from the table, and Bishop has the cattle prod.

“What’s the hurry, snow bunny?” Bishop sets his feet, squares his shoulders. Carisi backs away from him, keeping the chain loose so he can swing it hard and fast.

The fight is over before it starts.

Meth Head has the other chain from the table, and she whacks it across Carisi’s back. As he turns to fight her off, Bishop lunges forward, the cattle prod on and aimed high. He strikes Carisi in the throat.

He blacks out momentarily, falling heavily. He comes to, jerking and convulsing as Bishop trails the prod over his chest, down his stomach, jabbing. The pain is horrible, and he can’t breathe, and he’s crying again.

And then Bishop stabs the prod against Carisi’s crotch, holds it there.

Everything whites out. No sound, no sight, and, best of all, no sensation. Carisi welcomes the relief it brings.

~ * ~


	3. Chapter 3

~ * ~

Carisi comes to, leaning forward, arms pinned behind his back by metal cuffs attached around a pole welded to the floor. He feels rough carpet beneath his knees, realizes he’s still naked.

He can hear the hum of pavement, and determines that he’s been moved to a vehicle. If he had to guess, he’d say it’s a windowless van with stolen plates. Bishop’s too careful not to have planned this, even if he really didn’t intend to take Carisi in the first place.

The van lurches suddenly, bouncing up and down a bit, and Carisi moans as his body swings out in an arc and back in again, the weight on his arms increasing and decreasing intermittently.

His face is sticky—he’d guess dried tears, dried lube—and his eyes won’t open.

The van swings once more, and Carisi moans louder as his shoulders are wrenched with the sharp movement.

The van is warm, almost considerately so. It’s a surprising development for Carisi who, in this short time, has come to expect nothing but the worst of Bishop.

Warmth touches his face, and he jerks away. Wetness wipes at his stuck lashes, and slowly he opens his eyes, squinting into the darkened exterior of—oh, look at that—a windowless van.

Jonathan is sitting on his heels next to Carisi, a handkerchief in his fist. Over Jonathan’s shoulder, Carisi sees Meth Head working through a plastic baggie of pills, dry swallowing them as fast as her shaking fingers can scoop them up.

They look like Tic Tac candies more than anything else, really. Meth Head must be desperate.

The van stops moving, the driver climbing into the back with the three of them. It’s Bishop—of fucking course it’s Bishop, use your head Carisi! Bishop grins at Carisi, unlocking his wrists from the pole and relocking them, still behind his back.

Jonathan pats his lap, and Bishop almost throws Carisi at the man. Jonathan purrs softly, tonguing Carisi’s ear and fingering his balls. Carisi does his best not to react.

Jonathan seems unconcerned when Bishop pulls a knife from under the driver’s seat. Carisi tries to move, and Jonathan tightens his grip. A muscle jumps in his cheek, and that’s the only sign that maybe Jonathan is worried.

“Hey, you know me,” Jonathan says brightly, all precise words and smiles. He’s still smiling when Bishop leans into him and slices his throat.

Carisi recoils from the sudden spurt of blood. Bishop is surgical, he got both the carotid and the jugular in one go. Meth Head cries out in shock, but even as Bishop moves closer to her, she pulls her top lower, exposing both breasts. Licks her lips, spreads her legs. Her face slackens when Bishop stabs her throat.

It’s less elegant than Jonathan’s death, and Carisi hates himself for thinking that.

Then, Bishop actually fucking _smiles_ and wipes the knife on Jonathan’s pants.

He sheathes it, setting it back in the front seat.

“Out, mouse,” he says, jerking a thumb at the door.

Carisi doesn’t move, can’t move. He’s frozen to the floor, glued down by the blood pooling on the carpet. It’s soaking his knees and Bishop’s pants and—oh God—it’s still warm.

Bishop is a sociopath.

He lurches forward, grabs Carisi by one shackled arm and throws him against the door. Carisi whimpers softly as he is jostled, all too aware that he’s vulnerable in this position, and that Bishop has a feral grin.

“Snow bunny,” Bishop says before pulling out his penis and shoving it against Carisi’s unprotected backside. Bishop pushes his arms up, out of the way, and Carisi bites his lip to muffle the hiss of pain.

When Bishop manages to thrust into him, a searing, tearing pain bursts inside him, and Carisi lets a little whimper escape as he bites through his lip, blood slipping down his chin, filling his mouth. He doesn’t protest again, doesn’t see the point. If Bishop wants it, he’ll take it. He already is. The sudden change in Bishop’s demeanor is frightening. He hadn’t shown any interest in hurting Carisi like this—with him.

The rhythm is missing, Bishop leaning too far into Carisi, pressing him into the door, mouth moving over his body. The strain on Carisi’s arms keeps him shifting, trying to find a less painful position. It just makes the thrusts hurt more.

“Coulda got me a bunch of money, mouse,” Bishop grunts into his shoulder, teeth catching on his skin. He bites harder, drawing blood. Carisi feels it trickle down his back.

Bishop climaxes quickly, semen coating Carisi’s rectum, dribbling out when he pulls his penis free. “I shoulda done that before letting Jonathan have a crack. Break you in before you become damaged goods.”

Like a common whore, Carisi thinks, ashamed of the words, of even thinking them.

Bishop reaches around him, throwing open the door, tumbling Carisi out onto the cement. His face bounces off the pavement, more blood running down his chin, trickling onto his chest. His knees sting as scrapes and scratches ooze blood. He shifts upright. Already, the dawn’s chill is biting into his body, and he feels the gooseflesh spring up and down his skin. There is a strong odor of fish. It turns Carisi’s stomach.

 He manages to gain his feet when Bishop slaps a hand onto his shoulder. Carisi flinches violently, gasping breath and stuttering a dozen incoherent syllables.

“Down, mouse.”

With Bishop’s hand guiding him, Carisi kneels. Once he’s down, Bishop moves away. Carisi risks a peek behind him and sees him dragging Jonathan and Meth Head’s limp bodies to the edge of the van’s door.

“Look sharp, boy,” Bishop advises, and Carisi turns his head quickly, staring out into the water. They’re on one of the farthest docks, right on the edge of the harbor. If he’s tossed in the water, his body won’t be found for days. Evidence will be destroyed. Bishop will escape justice.

Like cracks in ice, he hears the report of the gun, two shots, three, four, the thump of first one body then the other hitting the dock. What was the point of that? They were already dead.

He closes his eyes, waits, heart stuttering, a prayer his sister, Theresa, taught him when he was five years old and sneaking cookies from the cookie jar rattling around his mind—“God protect those who wander into danger and bring them home safe again, amen”—and he counts the breaths he has left.

The heat of the barrel traces the back of his head before trailing down over his neck, his shoulders, lodging against his back, where it burns. That’s why he fired the gun. To heat up the barrel, to show his dominance and instill fear. Well, it’s working, Carisi thinks. He’s been scared since the bodega. He swears it was only yesterday, but he’s not sure. So much has happened since then.

“Beg me, mouse,” Bishop whispers in his ear, interrupting his turbulent thoughts, the hand not holding the gun coming to a rest against Carisi’s throat. He squeezes gently. “Beg me so I can deny you.”

Off to the right, a man, two men, shouting. Carisi can’t make out what they’re saying, but the gun moves off his back. Bishop tugs at his neck until he turns with him, but still Carisi keeps his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to see the bodies with their throats open and exposed.

“This is my business,” Bishop says loudly, and the gun goes off. Pain blossoms in Carisi’s back, and his eyes fly open.

He stares down at his chest, watching the spread of red flow from his naked chest. He can’t breathe, watching the hole dribble liquid in time to a heartbeat he can barely feel over the creeping numbness.

Bishop shoves him hard, and Carisi topples forward, smashing onto the dock, head turned just enough that he can see Bishop run back to the van and take off, tires squealing.

He passes out a moment later, between labored breaths, labored thoughts.

~ * ~


	4. Chapter 4

~ * ~

The room is too bright when he wakes up, and Carisi jolts upright, a shout dying on his lips as he takes in laminate pink countertops and maroon blinds. The patterned, plastic chairs shoved against a wall. The propped-open door leading to a small water closet.

It’s a goddamn hospital.

He’s not dead.

He’s not sure if he’s happy with that outcome.

Pain flares in his back, his chest, his arms. Hell, his whole body. It’s unpleasant but it also serves to say, “You’re alive!”

Something beeping frantically grabs his attention, and Carisi stares at a heart monitor. Poor thing, it really is going haywire.

Slowly, though, as he watches it, it settles into a steady, if somewhat still accelerated, rhythm.

“Ah,” someone says, loudly, and Carisi definitely doesn’t jump, no sir, thank you very much, please ignore that whimper of pain. “You are awake.”

“I guess I am,” he mumbles.

“You’re very lucky, you know. A few millimeters to the right and we’d be looking at you downstairs,” the doctor says, and Carisi stares at him like he’s grown another head.

“I almost died,” he says, “and that’s how you tell me?”

“My bedside manner isn’t always the best,” the doctor apologizes, but the insincerity floats through the air to land on Carisi.

“Yeah, you suck. I’m going back to sleep.”

Strangely, the doctor laughs. “I’ll be here all afternoon.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Anyway,” the doctor says, the sudden seriousness jarring. Carisi stares at him again, waiting. The man shrugs, almost embarrassedly. “I called Special Victims.”

“Why?” Carisi knows why. The doctor levels an incredulous look at him. “Okay,” Carisi says slowly, trying to keep his breathing steady even as he feels his heartbeat start knocking against his ribs. The heart monitor squawks, and Carisi thinks, betrayer. “Not Manhattan?”

“No, uh, Bronx.”

At that moment, a woman, late forties, maybe early fifties, with her graying hair pulled back in a high ponytail, wearing sensible heels and a green pantsuit steps into the room. Trailing her is a younger man with a hard face and sandy hair, a pressed blue suit and a navy blue tie.

“Detective Vendaya Ramirez,” the woman says, pointing at herself and then indicating her partner, “Detective Danny Boyle. We understand you have something you want to tell us.”

Carisi stares at her sullenly. There is something off-putting about her, but he can’t quite put a finger on it. This same quality, he thinks, is maybe why the squad doesn’t like him so well.

“You have a complaint to file?” Boyle tries, and Carisi turns his glare on him. The detective remains unfazed.

“I was assaulted,” he says, surprised that the word comes easily. Neither detective reacts. Fury wells up in Carisi’s chest, lancing through his bullet wound, and he sputters angrily, “I was abducted. I was taken by a sadistic man.” He runs out of steam abruptly and buries his face in his hands, whispering, “He raped me.”

It hits hard. Bishop actually raped him. So did Jonathan, on Bishop’s orders. He chokes back a dry sob, managing to muffle the sound with his hands.

“Dominick,” Ramirez says, and Carisi peeks up at her through his fingers. “I need you to tell me everything you remember. The day you were taken, the assault itself, how you escaped.” Her tone, flat, maybe bored, irritates him.

“I know that,” he all but shouts, head up, hands down gripping the material of his scrub top, heat rising in his cheeks. Stop moving, he thinks at his trembling body. _Don’t cry_. “I know what I have to do. All I ask of you is that you take me seriously. This really happened to me.”

“We understand that,” Boyle says, monotone, although perhaps a little less bored. “Let’s start somewhere. Who took you?”

“A man I only know as Bishop. There’s a corner bodega down the street from my apartment. He grabbed me there. I don’t know if there’s any video footage.”

“There is,” Ramirez confirms, and Carisi stares at her—just how long has he been out? “All the footage shows is you receiving a good knock on the head and being dragged out the door.”

“No one helped?” Carisi takes a deep breath, feels the oxygen stagnate in his lungs. “Of course no one helped. It’s fucking New York.”

“I understand that you’re angry,” Boyle says, and Carisi throws up a hand to stop him.

“I will process what happened to me, but I want to press charges. He, Bishop, killed two other people. One of which was another victim, and the other was a ‘client’ that also assaulted me.”

“Do you have names for these people?”

“The client was named Jonathan. I don’t know the woman’s name. She was a meth user. Decaying teeth. Saw her shoot up a couple times.” He straightens, locking arms around his midsection, rocking slightly. Hurts, alive, he thinks, the words slanting through his mind, almost derailing his train of thought. “We were on a dock. One of the fish wharves.”

“Where you were found,” Boyle says. “We recovered no bodies there.”

“He was interrupted when he tried to kill me. Two men yelled at him. He took off without the bodies.” Carisi’s brow furrows as he tries to remember. Did he actually see Jonathan and Meth Head on the dock with him? Yes, he thinks, he’d seen them, bled dry and shot in the back. “They should’ve been there.”

The detectives exchange a look, and Carisi feels panic welling in his chest. “He came back?” Hysteria, hello old friend. The heart monitor makes sure everyone knows just how bad he’s freaking out. The doctor looks upset, but he’s the only one. Carisi shakes, hands and feet going numb again. “He came back and took their bodies but he left me alone?”

“I believe so,” Boyle says quietly, an undercurrent of sympathy running through his voice, a first crack in his façade. “The fishermen who found you said they had no reception. One man stayed with you while the other went to find a signal to call for an ambulance.”

“You were never alone since the moment the fishermen intervened.”

“I’m tired,” Carisi says, lying down and pulling the thin sheets over his head. He ignores the wail of pain swelling in his back. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“Dominick,” Ramirez tries, tone soft, better than before. “I know this is hard for you, but we really need you to tell us what you remember.”

“That’s the thing,” Carisi says. “I don’t remember _enough_. I remember being taken. I remember waking up and being told that Bishop wanted to make me into a snow bunny. I remember Jonathan’s initial assault. But, I don’t know where I was kept. Bishop never moved me unless I was unconscious.” Tears choke him, and he rubs at his eyes harshly, glad he’s under the blanket so they can’t see. “I don’t even remember him coming back for the bodies or the two fishermen.”

“Dominick,” Boyle says. Carisi pulls the blanket down enough to peer out at him. “What can you tell us?”

Carisi heaves a breath, choking on a last sob. “I remember the house where I was kept. It was a basement, with two rooms. There was a staircase in the center of the second room. No windows at all.” He licks his lips, tries to ignore the way his mouth has dried out.

“I can describe Bishop easily. Older, between forty-five and fifty. Sandy blonde hair going white at the temples. Has a graying goatee. Likes to wear a gray ivy cap. Black leather jacket. Speaks with an Irish brogue. Big hands, big fingers.”

Boyle looks a little sick at that last description, and Carisi feels a numb sort of pleasure from it.

“I’d really like to rest now,” he says, and Boyle nods, ushering his partner from the room despite her protests. The doctor follows more slowly, looking back at Carisi every few steps.

“I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes,” he says. “Please, rest easy. We won’t let him come here.”

Carisi freezes. Bishop knows he’s still alive. He can come after him. He’s not safe. Not safe at all. Why he hadn’t thought of that himself, he doesn’t know, can only equate to the unbalanced sensation of talking about his assaults.

He’s not going to stay here.

He’s safer somewhere else.

Oh, God. What if Bishop is already on his way here?

Carisi yanks out the IV and detaches the heart monitor’s leads. He scrambles to a chest of drawers stacked underneath a television suspended from the wall. Disappointingly, there is nothing. No clothes.

He’ll have to go without then. At least the hospital dressed him in scrubs instead of a gown. Small mercy.

He gets as far as the parking lot before security finds him.

“I can’t go back,” he tells them, but despite how loud he protests, until he’s screaming so hard his throat hurts, he’s still dragged back inside and strapped to the bed. The doctor sedates him when he starts biting his own flesh, twisting in the bonds until his teeth can tear at both the wrist and the restraint.

In some ways, the induced unconsciousness is a relief. It means he won’t dream.

And he doesn’t.

~ * ~


	5. Chapter 5

~ * ~

When he wakes up, he’s alone.

His scrubs have been traded for a gown, and embarrassingly, it’s migrated upward, leaving his legs bare.

He struggles to sit up, hands tugging uselessly against the still-attached restraints.

The door opens, and in walks the two detectives from…yesterday? At least, Carisi thinks it was yesterday.

“Dominick,” Ramirez says, brightly, like she’s coming to greet an old friend.

“Detective Ramirez,” he responds. “What can I help you with today?”

Boyle and Ramirez exchange a look before Boyle pulls a tablet from his jacket. He presses a button and holds it so Carisi can peer at the screen.

Bishop’s face stares back at him. It’s not perfectly his face, obviously a sketch. But, still, Carisi’s heart beats harder, his palms sweating.

“You know who he is?” he whispers, clenching his hands. Neither detective speaks. “Do you know where he is?”

“We were told to stop looking into it,” Ramirez finally says. “I want to assure you that we won’t. We’re not going to let him get away with what he did to you.”

Boyle pulls the tablet back, shoving it into his pocket roughly. “We think he’s one of us, a cop. Deep undercover.”

“Unfit for his duty,” Ramirez adds. “Look, we’re not going to lie; you won’t be believed. Not about who attacked you.”

Carisi can’t stop shaking. “He knows who I am.” He moans softly. “What’s to stop him from coming here and killing me?”

Ramirez and Boyle shrug in unison. “We’ll get a guard stationed at the door. Dominick, please, only worry about getting better. We won’t let more harm come to you.”

Carisi turns onto his side as best he can. He wants out of here. He’s just a sitting duck waiting for Bishop to return to finish the job. Ramirez and Boyle see themselves out.

He doesn’t sleep again, even though he’s still tired and in pain. Every time he hears someone outside his door, he jerks out of the half-doze he manages.

Hourly, a nurse checks on him, and finally around six hours in, a doctor stops by. A few minutes later, the restraints are removed and the hospital psych coordinator pulls a chair up to the bed.

“Dominick Carisi junior,” she says. “Let’s get you out of here.”

~ * ~

As soon as he’s released from the hospital which, once he’s done talking with their psych coordinator, is within a half an hour, Carisi takes a cab to Bronx’s department where he works with a sketch artist to get a more accurate sketch of Bishop ready for wanted posters. He’s touched that Bronx is disobeying the cease and desist orders.

Done with that, he heads to his apartment long enough to grab a change of clothing and his badge, thankfully untouched. His whole apartment is trashed. Destroyed. He stares at it for a long moment and then calls it in.

An hour after that, Carisi goes to the precinct. He does not want to speak to anyone, but he knows he has to. His apartment was searched by more than cops. Worryingly, the most recent picture of his sister Bella and him is missing. He warns Bronx about that, and they offer his sister protection.

Carisi squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath. There’s no use in putting it off any longer.

He heads inside.

“What are you doing here?” Rollins demands, glaring at him.

Carisi glances down at his coat, buttoned all the way up to his neck. Looks down at his untied shoes. He catches her annoyed stare as he tries to see himself the way she must see him.

“So, look,” he starts, and immediately Rollins’s face closes off. “I need to tell you something. It’s really important, but I don’t know if I can say it more than once. So, can you call the others here?”

“Why don’t you call them?”

“I don’t have my phone,” he admits, and her expression softens a little. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, whatever.” She sends out what must be a mass text, since Fin, Amaro, and Benson all convene at Rollins’s desk within minutes.

“So, Carisi,” Benson says, a big smile plastered on her face, like that’s going to put him at ease. “What did you want to tell us?”

“I, uh, I,” he stutters. They’re not close to him physically, but he can _feel_ them pressing in on him and he loses his thoughts. He shutters, closing down, stepping back as, collectively, they step forward.

“Come on, Carisi, just spit it out,” Amaro says.

“You know I was gone for a couple days, right?” The doctor had been gleeful in telling him that he’d only lost a day and a half with Bishop. How comforting.

“Just say it,” Benson sighs, aggravation seeping through. Carisi blinks at her, more to hide the tears that suddenly well up in his eyes than any real shock. _Don’t fucking cry. Take it like a man_. Wrong, his mind spits, just wrong. Benson continues, unaware, “Do you want me to suspend you?”

“You’re going to suspend me?” he whispers. He backs up again, grabbing onto a chair—Fin’s—to steady himself.

“Just talk.”

“I was taken by a man.” He watches their reactions, which, on the whole, stay in the I-don’t-believe-you range. “He put me in the hospital. I don’t know his real name but he goes by Bishop.”

“Bishop took you?” The incredulity in Benson’s voice rattles in Carisi’s ears.

He opens his mouth to respond and she holds up a hand. “No. You’re lying. You’re on a week’s suspension. Starting now. Go home, Carisi.”

She walks away.

Carisi looks to the others, but no one will meet his eyes. He sighs softly, tugging off his badge and setting it on his desk.

He walks away, gets back in a cab, goes back to his apartment, and stands, staring at the mess of fingerprint dust, overturned furniture, and the shredded clothing.

It’s not anything he didn’t see when he was here before, but somehow without his job to distract him, it’s almost worse.

Thing is, having three sisters, his mom made sure they all cleaned their rooms. The mess weighs almost as heavy as the assault.

He blinks, feeling tears in his eyes. He tells himself he won’t cry right before the first tear slides down his face. Several more follow it, and he hunches down, arms around his stomach as he sobs.

Fear and anger, disgust and shame, war within him.

He must have done something to deserve Bishop’s attack, right? To deserve the clear dismissal from his coworkers.

His outburst is quick lived, for which he is thankful. Then, he grabs a suitcase and salvages as many of his clothes as he can and his text books, also oddly untouched. Then, he locks his apartment behind him and sits on the front step to call his sister.

Bella answers on the third ring.

“Oh, Sonny, I would if I could, but I just don’t think I can. Tommy and I are going through a rough patch right now. Have you tried Mom and Dad?”

Carisi really doesn’t want that. It’s not that Mom and Dad wouldn’t help him. It’s just that they would lecture him incessantly about his life choices, and they’d probably be mad at him for being attacked in the first place.

He tries Theresa next, but she’s busy with a new relationship and doesn’t think she’d be able to put him up.

The urge to cry again comes over him.

His phone rings before he can, and he answers, apprehensively.

“So, I don’t even warrant a call?” his sister Gina asks. “Sonny, you can always call me if you need to. I’m here for you.”

“I,” he begins, only for her to cut him off with, “I don’t care. You’re my little brother. You deserve love and care. God, why am I always the last to know about anything?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sonny, the Bronx detectives were asking all of us questions about you, about your habits, your sexuality, about any strange men you’d been hanging around.”

“And what did you tell them?” Carisi can’t breathe.

Gina sighs. “I told them it was none of my business what you got up to. You’re still my brother and I still love you.”

“Gina, something happened to me. Something bad. I can’t stay at my apartment.”

“I know,” she says. “Do you need a ride?”

“I can call a cab.”

“Do you want to stay on the line until you get here?”

Carisi thinks about that offer. “No,” he decides. “I’ll be fine. Thank you though.”

“I’ll see you in fifteen minutes,” she promises.

Carisi hangs up and immediately dials a taxi.

Within ten minutes, he’s standing outside his sister’s apartment. Gina comes barreling out, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tightly.

He lets her even though it makes him feel uncomfortable. Finally, she steps back and lets him shuffle toward the front door.

“Just one suitcase?” she asks.

“The rest of my stuff was destroyed,” he tells her. “Also, I’m on a week-long suspension.”

“What for?”

“Beats me.” Carisi thinks Benson just didn’t want to listen to him. She probably thought all she’d get were lame excuses.

Gina looks at him like she doesn’t believe him.

“Anything worth salvaging from your apartment?”

“Maybe. It’s an active crime scene though. I probably shouldn’t have taken what I did.”

“We can buy more things. They’re just things.”

Carisi nods. “I need to tell you something,” he says. “Can we go inside?”

Gina makes tea for both of them while Carisi perches carefully on her sofa. The hospital had given him some gauze pads to staunch the bleeding and he knows he’s been stitched inside. It still feels like if he moves the wrong way, he’ll rip his stitches, bleed through his pad, and soil her furniture.

He leans forward, hands on his knees as she arranges coasters and mugs.

“Sugar?” she asks.

“No,” he says, trying to breathe deeply. He waits until she sips her tea and sets the mug down again. “I was raped,” he says, not to shock her, but to get it out. It feels a little like pulling out a sliver.

Gina blinks at him. “I figured,” she finally says. “What with it being Bronx Special Victims detectives that were talking to us.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Am I the first person you’ve told?”

“Aside from the detectives? Yeah.”

Gina slides off her chair and pushes at him until he lets her squeeze in with him. He ignores the flare of pain in his back from the gunshot. It’s worth it, he thinks to have his sister supporting him. “Thank you for telling me,” she says. “What do you need me to do?”

“Just, be yourself? I think I’ll be okay.” Lies. “If you act like nothing’s happened, maybe that’ll help.”

Gina shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s the way to go.” She grabs her mug but doesn’t drink from it again. “Sonny, how about we take this week to figure out how things are going to be. If you want to see a therapist or find a hobby to help distract you. It’s going to be hard, but I believe in you.” She stands up, tugging him up too. “Let’s get you settled.”

Maybe, Carisi thinks, this week won’t actually be so bad. Gina’s being really considerate of him.

~ * ~


	6. Chapter 6

~ * ~

The week passes more easily than Carisi thought it would. Gina takes him to her therapist, and Carisi gets a journal to record all the times he jerks awake, screaming because he thinks Bishop is coming back.

Gina doesn’t say anything when they go to his apartment after it’s released as a crime scene and the only thing he takes is his old stuffed dog from when he was a kid.

He goes back to work and manages to keep his mouth shut. He gets ribbed pretty hard about the few days he was gone, when Bishop had him. It seems like everyone’s forgotten what he tried to tell them. Carisi tries to let it roll of his back, but it bothers him.

Gina thinks it makes his nightmares worse, but Carisi refuses to acknowledge it. He’s coping. Barely.

Still, things settle well enough that he can get his own place again, the therapist knocks his sessions down to once every two weeks, and his gets a second journal with far less frequent entries.

He also keeps an actual, honest to goodness-why-are-you-saving-that-damn-thing-just-let-me-throw-it-away shoebox, filled to the brim with scraps of paper he’s scribbled over. Little thoughts he’s had over the days and weeks that he shows to his therapist.

He feels almost normal again.

Life keeps moving on. He still jumps at shadows, still sleeps with his gun under his pillow, but he’s getting better.

And then six months after he almost died, it all goes to shit.

He’s working on a case with Amaro, trying to ignore the still-painful jibes Amaro keeps sliding his way. Over the weeks, especially after Carisi accidentally revealed that he was in therapy for an undisclosed reason, Amaro and Rollins have backed off. Fin never was as bad as either of them, and he keeps mostly to himself when Carisi does join the conversation.

He’s in the middle of one such conversation, trying to tell the others about the rabbit hole he fell down with his research for the case when the door to the precinct opens and in walks Bishop.

The conversation halts. Carisi is aware his mouth is hanging open, but he can’t move. He’s frozen—even his brain can’t move.

Bishop crosses the bullpen, heading for Benson’s office while the rest of them remain silent.

As soon as the door opens to admit him and shuts again behind him, Amaro reaches over and pushes Carisi’s mouth shut.

“Didn’t know that’s all it took,” Fin jokes, a little smugly, and Carisi turns a blank stare to him. He can’t comprehend anything right now and it seems amusing to the others.

Rollins, though, nods at him and points at Benson’s closed door. “I get the same feeling whenever I see him,” she says, maybe a little softer than normal. Subdued.

Which is what Carisi feels. That, or completely bowled over.

He glances at Amaro, who is sitting back in his chair, studying him with a careful poker face.

“Takes what?” Carisi hears himself ask, slightly muffled, like he’s talking through cotton or something.

“To get you to shut up,” Fin says, that same smug laugh hiding in his voice. “Man, we shoulda had Murphy come sooner.”

Bishop is an alias, Carisi knows. He knew he was a cop. Bronx hadn’t been able to get him because they were stopped at every turn. Now he has an actual name, he thinks numbly. He could just call them, have them pick him up. Cut through the red tape and the thin blue line.

It’s just, Murphy sounds so nonthreatening. It sounds…like a real name. Well, of course Bishop has a name, Carisi admonishes himself a second later. Everyone has a name. It’s just…it was easier to view him as less than human when he didn’t have the same qualifications of a real one. Real names are the first step. Next will be family.

“Murphy?” he hears himself ask, wondering blankly why the room is starting to spin.

“Declan Murphy,” Rollins supplies. “He was the squad leader for a while a year or so back.”

“Declan Murphy.” The room swoops oddly. “He’s the guy that hit me with his gun.” Declan Murphy, former SVU detective. Former SVU squad leader.

“Yeah,” Amaro says, his voice also coming through cotton. Carisi turns to face him again, wincing as the whole room tilts, his desk the only thing solid under his fingers. He’s not quite sure when he started gripping the edge.

“Bishop,” he says, softly, and something explodes in his vision, like a flashbulb going off. He’s so close to hysteria, he knows he is. He can feel it clawing up his back, twining tendrils through his hair, the strands rising up. “He…”

Even half a year later, he still can’t say out loud what was done to him. Only to his sister Gina and his therapist. He hasn’t even used the word again with Ramirez and Boyle.

He’s sure the others are looking at him weirdly, but he can’t seem to move again, eyes stuck on Amaro’s.

“He what, Carisi?” Fin tries.

The sudden warmth at his crotch shocks him, and he finally moves, staring down at the spreading patch of wet. Embarrassment floods him, blood rising in his cheeks until he’s certain his face is flaming red.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers out, all too aware of Rollins poking around his side to see what he’s looking at. He expects her to say something, anything. Maybe make a joke at his expense, instead she reaches out, hand hovering over his shoulder until he nods at her. Her hand is warm, but it’s not comforting. All it does is give him another point of contact to stop the room from spinning—which it’s doing in turns, first left and then right.

“Sick,” he murmurs, and she leverages him out of the chair and steers him into the men’s room. She leaves him there, hanging over a toilet bowl, trying to decide if it’ll be worth it to lose the little lunch he managed today.

When she comes back, she’s got Amaro and the change of clothes he keeps in his locker.

“I need you to tell me what’s going on,” Amaro says. He sounds kind, almost. No hint of the usual aggravation Carisi usually incites in him.

“Declan Murphy was abducting a woman, about six months ago,” Carisi begins but interrupts himself to spit out the gathering saliva in his mouth. He dry heaves a few times but it’s not until Rollins moves in to rub circles on his back that he loses the battle with his stomach and expels the half a sandwich he’d eaten an hour ago.

“This is when you went on that trip,” Amaro says once they’ve moved to the sinks so Carisi can rinse out his mouth.

“Yeah,” Carisi nods, “except I wasn’t really on a trip. I tried to stop him—Murphy—and he took me too.”

“Oh,” Rollins breathes, and there’s so much pain in her voice, in her eyes.

“He had this ‘client’ named Jonathan. Bishop—Murphy—had him do things to me, then he killed the lady and Jonathan when I didn’t…break, I suppose. He did stuff to me, too.” Carisi blinks heard, clarifying, probably unnecessarily, “Bishop did.” He shakes his head, “Murphy.”

“I’m sorry,” Amaro says, and the same pain in Rollins’s voice chokes his.

“Look, it’s okay. Bronx SVU is working on my case. Turns out, he did it in their backyard. They just couldn’t find him even with the sketch artist.”

Amaro shakes his head, his poker face slipping on like a mask and sliding off again as Carisi sips more water to help with the burning in his throat. “You went through hell, Carisi, and we gave you shit for it. I really am sorry. Anything you need me to do, I’ll do it.”

“Can you call Bronx? Let them know he’s here? I’m sorry, I don’t think I can face him again.”

“Of course. Of course.” Amaro holds up a hand like he’s going to squeeze Carisi’s shoulder, but he pauses, and for that Carisi is thankful. He’s not certain he can take even Rollins’s sympathetic touch anymore. “Rollins, keep an eye on the door. Make sure no one comes in. I’ll call the lead detective. What’s the name?”

“Vendaya Ramirez. She and her partner, Danny Boyle, are the leads.”

“Good. Stay here. I’ll come get you when he’s gone. Promise.”

It’s the longest fifteen minutes of Carisi’s life. Longer than when he broke his arm motor-biking at fifteen and had to wait for a doctor plaster it. Longer than when Gina made him wait up for her on her first after-curfew date just so their parents wouldn’t yell at her alone.

Even Rollins, leaning against the door, doesn’t make the time go any faster.

He hides in the handicap stall to change, and she gives him a bag to store his soiled clothes in.

Amaro comes back once to tell them through the still closed door that he placed the call and Ramirez and Boyle will be here inside of ten minutes.

The yelling starts shortly after that, and the door caves in, something heavy smashing against it. Rollins jumps clear of the swinging wood. She moves to stand in front of Carisi, and Murphy is in the doorway, looming, looming, looming. Carisi backs up until he feels the wall behind him. His bladder is still empty otherwise, he’s sure he’d be pissing himself again. Amaro ducks under Murphy’s arm and joins Rollins in front of him.

“Out of the way,” Murphy growls. “This slime ball is spreading rumors about me.”

“This ‘slime ball’ is my junior detective,” Benson says. “All of you, out of the bathroom. I want to hear what’s going on. Declan, go stand by Fin. Carisi, come here.”

Carisi blinks. Amaro and Rollins both shake their heads. “Liv,” Amaro warns as Rollins says, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Thankfully, for Carisi, Ramirez and Boyle arrive.

“Declan Murphy,” Boyle says sharply. “You are under arrest for the murders of Janice Quentin and Jonathan Abberidge.” He glances at Carisi, before turning back to Murphy and continuing, “You are also under arrest for the sexual assault, torture, and attempted murder of Dominick Carisi Jr.” Benson’s mouth falls open and Fin, shell-shocked, takes a step away from Murphy. Ramirez moves quickly, cuffing Murphy’s hands behind his back and running through his Miranda Rights.

“Do you understand your rights as they have been read to you?” she growls at him. He nods, but wisely says nothing except to request his union rep and a lawyer.

“Carisi?” Benson turns to him when they leave.

“Liv,” Amaro says, and she raises a hand to shush him.

“Sexual torture?” Benson says, shaking her head. “What excuse do you have?”

“Why are you acting like that?” Rollins demands. “You’ve known Carisi better than you’ve ever known Murphy. Did you know he was turning girls in his undercover operation? Said all they do is lie. Well, you and I both know that’s not true.”

“Save it, Rollins,” Benson stops her. “I want to hear what Carisi has to say.”

“He took me,” Carisi says quietly. The room starts swimming again, and he looks to Amaro and Rollins for help. “He hired Jonathan Abberidge to rape me. He wanted to turn me into some kind of specialty fuck. It didn’t work, so he killed Abberidge and Quentin. He raped me. And he was going to kill me too, but he got interrupted.”

“Why didn’t you tell us first?”

“I didn’t want any lawyers to come in and say the investigation was bungled ‘cause of favoritism. Anyway, jurisdiction was in the Bronx. Made sense to involve them.”

“But you could have told me.”

“Would you have believed me then?” The answer is no. Everyone knows it. Carisi isn’t sure why this is where Benson is drawing her line in the sand. “I know you don’t like me. I know you all don’t like me. When I came back from the hospital, I was gonna tell you a little bit of it. That I needed some time off to recover, but you exploded on me, the moment I walked through those doors. You suspended me without asking for my side of the story.”

Carisi is breathing hard. Benson looks contrite, Amaro and Rollins apologetic. Fin looks the same as he always does, but he’s got something in his eyes that’s changed, something almost like pity or sorrow. Carisi shakes his head, too little too fucking late. “You know what, I’m done. I’m out. I quit. I’m gonna go focus on my studies, and I’m gonna be the best damn lawyer I can be, but I hope to God I never see you again.”

He walks away. He half expects her to call out after him. But, no one follows him, no one speaks to him as he leaves his gun and badge on his desk, grabs an empty evidence box, and clears out his stuff.

A year.

He lasted a Goddamn year with nothing to show for it except a nasty scar and trouble sleeping at night.

He flips off the building when he drives away.

It’s a relief, finally.

He knows nobody likes him. Nobody ever has. He’s too much of a jackass and a jerk face to make nice. He also knows he’s not the weak link, not anymore. And, he promises himself, he will never be the butt of somebody else’s joke again.

He pulls out his phone and punches in a number he’s sure he’s not supposed to have.

When Rita Calhoun answers, it takes a few throat clearings to be able to ask, “Can I intern with you?”

~ The End ~


End file.
